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“Are you well?” Concern darkened her eyes, the hue so similar to his own. “I remember Regine. That is, the Dowager Duchess of Heartwaite.” Her sympathetic gaze swept his face. “I remember the two of you together.”

She’d been—what—twelve? And Theadosia thirteen to Regine’s eighteen?

Thank God, Jessica didn’t remind him she also remembered how broken he’d been. Or how, even as a little girl, she’d fretted about him. Her sloppily-written, rambling letters those months after Regine had left England had said all those things as she’d innocently attempted to comfort her older brother.

James patted her hand. He counted himself lucky to have three affectionate sisters. “I am fine. Tonight isn’t the first time the duchess and I have encountered each other since she came to London.”

He’d not mention Bullock’s Museum. That afternoon had ended pleasantly enough, but as he’d determined to do, he’d bid Regine an indifferent farewell—liar—with no intention of rekindling their relationship.

Though he might be a successful lawyer, he couldn’t offer her the lifestyle, position, or comfort to which she was accustomed. Besides, when she’d married Heartwaite, she’d made her priorities clear. Familiar bitterness and envy, tempered by a jot of regret, throttled up his throat, and he swallowed against the burning.

“You should know that Thea also asked me to extend an invitation to her grace for the Valentine’s Day ball Crispin and I are hosting.” Jessica angled her head, studying him much too intently for his comfort. “I shan’t invite her if you don’t wish me to.”

Did he want her to?

Jessica hesitated, worrying her lower lip. “It’s just that we’ve heard she’s not been well-received. And since our families were friends…” She hitched a shoulder. “We thought to ease her into Society.”

Ever kind, were his sisters. How could he begrudge Regine and Juliet an invitation or two?

“By all means, invite her.” He was capable of governing his emotions. At least he had been until she’d whirled into his life like an out-of-control dervish a few days ago. “I ask that you include her sister in the invitation as well.”

At his request, she arched her eyebrows high but nodded. “I’d intended to.”

“Good.” He couldn’t think of a more ingenious response since his musings had already leaped forward to next week.

God’s ballocks. He was out of his bloody mind. Attending a Valentine’s Day ball. The one day of the year set aside for romance and love and ridiculous tokens of affection. Poems. Odes. Sonnets. Sweets and flowers.

And he, like a lack-witted imbecile, had agreed to attend, knowing the woman who’d spurned him would be there. Another thought brought him up short. Would Jessica expect him to dance with Regine? No, by damn. A man could only take so much.

If James took her into his arms, he would never be able to let her go again.

Mayhap he could arrange to be out of the city. There was that ailing client in Bath…

As he and Jessica entered the dining room, he barely stifled an oath. His mouth thinned into an uncompromising line, he scowled at the table. His manipulating sister had placed him to Regine’s right, exactly as he’d suspected she would. Leveling her another accusatory glance that promised retribution, he filled his lungs with a steadying breath.

And—damn it all—inhaled Regine’s subtle perfume.

Apple blossoms. She always smelled of fresh apples and spice. Her shiny dark-as-a-raven’s-wing hair was piled high on her head, exposing her nape and the downy hair there. He itched to brush his knuckles down the graceful column and across her bare, gently sloping alabaster shoulders fringed with the finest blue silk.

For an extended breath, he shut his eyes against the maelstrom of unwanted sentiment her scent heralded. Jaw clamped, he clenched the back of his chair. His teeth might crack from the force of subduing his desire. Lungs cramping with longing, he took his seat and breathed in Regine’s tempting scent while spearing Theadosia a just-you-wait look.

She tipped her mouth upward at one side while rolling her shoulders.

In contrition or dismissal?

James snapped his napkin open and, after placing it on his lap, cleared his throat. He felt as awkward as he had at his first formal dinner. Taking a long sip of wine, he willed his awareness of the woman to his left to dissipate. Her warmth beckoned, and God help him, he could not dispel the aroma of apple blossoms from his nostrils.

Without conscious thought, he found himself leaning toward her, drawing in her essence. He fought not to close his eyes as the familiar scent wrapped around him, coiling through his gut and entwining his heart. Ah, her fragrance elicited such sweet memories. Sweet, tormenting memories reminiscent of another time.

For all of her affected poise, Regine seemed as uncomfortable as he, for she also sipped her wine and had yet to look at him. If they kept staring straight ahead, like dolls attired in the first stare of fashion on display, they’d soon garner the attention of everyone in the room.

Theadosia caught his eye and pointedly steered her attention to Regine. Always a superb hostess, she wouldn’t tolerate any of her guests feeling self-conscious. If he didn’t heed her silent warning, James would receive an ever-so-polite, but thorough tongue-lashing.

With a sideways, almost shy glance, Regine broke the silence first, “I thank you again for escorting us to the museum. Juliet hasn’t stopped talking about the excursion.”

“I appreciate she enjoyed herself.” He relaxed a trifle, some of the strain seeping from his shoulders and spine. Dining beside her wasn’t all that bad. He could manage for an hour or two. He signaled the footman to refill his wine glass.

At once, the well-trained servant poured him another glass of superb cabernet.